


Slight

by sciencefictioness



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe In Which Homophobia Isn't Real And Nothing Hurts, Established Relationship, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 02:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: There was a taste to the breathlessness of it all; the rush in his blood, the fire in his lungs.When things went wrong that breathlessness turned suffocating, but there is none of that tonight— just gold in his saddlebags and Boadicea moving fast underneath him and John’s eyes locked on him like he can’t look away.  Arthur meets his gaze, both of them smiling. Wind in their faces, adrenaline in their veins, hearts beating hard behind their ribs.The law is so far behind them they’ll never catch up, and even if they did their camp is buried so deep in the trees they’d pass right by without even noticing.  Someone lets out a loud whoop, and someone else laughs, loud and joyous.  Dutch is shouting something over the sound of hoofbeats and the roaring in Arthur’s ears, but he can’t make out the words.There’s gold in his saddlebags and victory in his mouth and John… John is watching him.  Waiting.He won’t have to wait long.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 172





	Slight

There was a taste to the breathlessness of it all; the rush in his blood, the fire in his lungs. 

When things went wrong that breathlessness turned suffocating, but there is none of that tonight— just gold in his saddlebags and Boadicea moving fast underneath him and John’s eyes locked on him like he can’t look away. Arthur meets his gaze, both of them smiling. Wind in their faces, adrenaline in their veins, hearts beating hard behind their ribs.

The law is so far behind them they’ll never catch up, and even if they did their camp is buried so deep in the trees they’d pass right by without even noticing. Someone lets out a loud  _ whoop,  _ and someone else laughs, loud and joyous. Dutch is shouting something over the sound of hoofbeats and the roaring in Arthur’s ears, but he can’t make out the words.

There’s gold in his saddlebags and victory in his mouth and John… John is watching him. Waiting.

He won’t have to wait long.

-

Everybody back at camp hears them coming well before they arrive. Sean’s still hollering. Dutch can’t go more than a few minutes without telling everyone how proud he is of his boys. Karen and Mary-Beth have already pulled out crates of beer and whiskey and rum when they stampede into the clearing together, and most of the gang is scarcely off their horses before they have a bottle in hand. Most of them, but not Arthur.

Arthur has an armful of John Marston, hands fisted in his collar to pull him down, mouth rough and insistent against his own. Nobody pays them any mind— Sean spins one of the girls in wide circles in his arms, earning himself a half-hearted slap when he almost trails the hem of her dress through the campfire. Dutch has an arm thrown over Hosea’s shoulders as they head back into camp, his other arm flung out as he gestures at something. 

John tastes like want and euphoria and home and when they break apart they’re both smiling.

“Think you need a drink, Arthur Morgan,” he says, and Arthur smirks.

“Think you might be right,” he replies, and they fall into step, Arthur’s arm around John’s neck and John’s slipped around his waist.

-

They sit next to each other on a log near the campfire and listen to Javier slur his way through a half-dozen songs before the whiskey really settles. Arthur is halfway through his bottle, warm and loose-limbed and grinning at nothing in particular when John slings a leg over him and eases into his lap. Arthur’s arms circle his waist automatically, body making room like it has a hundred times before. 

Like it will a hundred times again.

“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he says, grin going wide and lascivious. John reaches up and knocks his hat off his head, fingers tangling in his hair. 

“Ain’t no sweetheart,” John protests, like he always does, but he doesn’t protest for long.

Can’t protest with Arthur’s lips on his, hands creeping into his clothes as he makes little wounded sounds. Abigail is watching them again, like she usually is when she thinks they’re too drunk on liquor and each other to notice. They’ll figure that out, sooner or later. Arthur ain’t got the wherewithal to navigate it at the moment.

When John starts working Arthur’s belt open Miss Grimshaw chases them off, yelling about them always being up to no good in the middle of her campsite. Their tent isn’t far.

They barely make it there, and neither of them bother closing the flap all the way before they finish undressing. John’s got his fingers slick with gun oil lightning fast, working himself open quick and hungry and climbing into Arthur’s lap again, the cot creaking under their weight. Arthur fucks him like it’s the first time. Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only time, every time. John pulls his hair and Arthur puts him on his back and spreads his knees wide and grinds in hard enough that it hurts them both. They fall asleep like that, filthy and laid out for all the world to see, dregs of their whiskey soaking into the dirt. Tomorrow they’ll hurt all over.

Right then John’s breathing against his skin and petting through his hair. Mouthing at his throat, nosing under his jaw. Ain’t nothing that can touch him.

Arthur’s invincible.

-

The saloon is raucous like only the best worst places ever get, pianist playing just off tempo in the corner, voices mingling so loud it’s hard to hear himself think. There are men and women working everywhere, leaned up against patrons in clothes that don’t quite fit, whispering in their ears. Trying to coax them out of their last few dollars,  _ you look like you could use some company, let me show you a good time cowboy. _

It’s no surprise the rest of the gang ended up here; everyone is flush with cash and eager to be parted from it like always. Arthur and Dutch had gone to tie up a few loose ends, but everything is done now. No witnesses to come stirring up trouble, money all tucked away, key to a room upstairs snug in his pocket; Dutch pats him hard on the shoulder as they head inside, but Arthur is already scanning the room.

It’s easy to find what he’s looking for; his eyes are trained to pick him out of a crowd. His body conditioned to gravitate to him. John’s sitting on a barstool with an empty shot glass in front of him, waving off the advances of a particularly determined working girl with a good natured grin.

Arthur sidles up behind him and wraps his arms around John, palms sliding into his clothes and face tucked into his throat.

“How much you cost, darlin’?” Arthur can feel him smile even if he can’t see it. John tilts his head to give Arthur room, reaching up to sink a hand in his hair.

“Ain’t sure you can afford it,” John says, voice all gravel just the way he likes it, and Arthur laughs, rucking his shirt up higher.

“I dunno, you seem pretty easy to me. Bet I could get it for free.” Arthur squeezes John tight, scraping his teeth along the column of his throat. “Bet you’d beg me for it, sweetheart.”

“Ain’t no sweetheart,” John says, but he stands and turns around in Arthur’s arms. It’s an invitation if Arthur’s ever seen one.

He reaches down to heft John up by his thighs. John wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist, all long limbs and lean muscle. It’s easy to pick him up, easy to carry him. 

Arthur could take him anywhere like this, but mostly he wants to take him to bed.

They climb the stairs like that, John’s tongue spilling into his mouth, Arthur’s fingers digging into his ass. Someone wolf whistles— Javier, if the sheer volume is anything to go by. They stumble on the landing and go down in a heap snickering. When Arthur gets to his feet again he throws John over his shoulder instead, fingers digging into the swell of his ass, John’s drunk laugher soft in his ears.

The bed groans when Arthur throws him down on it. It’s not the best one they’ve slept in, but it’s far from the worst. John’s all pliant as Arthur tugs his clothes off, kissing him all the while, scraping his beard against all the softest patches of skin he can find. The curve of his throat, the inside of his thighs. The vulnerable, scarred expanse of his stomach. 

Dutch calls them all his boys and it’s true enough, mostly. Except for this.

John is Arthur’s boy, and everyone knows it.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, here or on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


End file.
